


Torquated

by psychocondriacs_with_guns



Category: DCU
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Blood and Violence, Confinement, Daddy Kink, Drug Use, Drugs, F/M, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, ISSA LOTTA BAD THANGS, Masochism, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, Sadism, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Submission, Violence, all the good shit and more ladies give it time, if it was not clear, making this shit up as I go along, no seriously, you and the joker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15870786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychocondriacs_with_guns/pseuds/psychocondriacs_with_guns
Summary: You are a simple student and white collar worker, trying to make way in Gotham City. You have an overall average life, doing the minimum. You're reclusive by nature, most people seem to be cold to you, and you generally feel apathetic about whatever is going to happen in your life. Some days are fine, skirting by. Most days are low, grey. And maybe sometimes dark.But even your darkest days have paled into comparison to what has yet to come.





	Torquated

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I feel like I have to say this, for your own good. I am a fucked up person and fucked up things turn me on. I use a lot of really vulgar language and actions towards women, plus just a lot of like gut-wrenching kind of sadism, this is no simple DD/LG fic. And if that's your thing this is your fic. But if it's not, I might offend/upset/trigger you. Please be warned. 
> 
> This chapter contains: female imprisonment, chained prisoners, murder, skullfucking, kidnapping, guns, and drugging, etc
> 
> Edit: 9/2 I realized I posted an older, unedited version. This is the cleaner version. (In actual writing skill, not creative content.)
> 
> Edit: 11/20 I'm editing this chapter again because some time has passed and I really want to go at it again. Expect a chapter release in the next day or two.

There was the sound of thunder, a disruptive crack through the eerie, rhythmic clicking of heels. It must have been right above the old abandoned dance hall. Though the dance hall was once a shiny symbol of Gotham's vast elite, it was left unused, and it became an afterthought. The ceiling in the lobby was completely caved in, and the way the roof sagged in the middle gave the suggestion that the rest of the establishment was the same, but the ballroom and bar were still being sheltered by the original roof, plus some extra support. Fresh brown boards that lined the weakest parts of the ceiling and brand new scaffolding along the interior walls was the only evidence of occupancy.

The black leather boots, the source of the noise, stopped at the orchestral section. There was a yellow smiley face painted on the conductor's step. The owner of the black boots, a pale man, dripping in inky tattoos, leaned over and grabbed a loose plank. Once he raised it, the door swung open. A ladder revealed itself, mere spokes in the wall, that lead to a well-kept secret. Beneath the wooden floors, there was a concrete safe house, two floors deep, that had been forgotten- lost in the multitudes of Gotham lore.

The pale man, in his black boots, and a black leather trench coat, descended the steel ladder. He reaches the bottom, only 20 feet deep and turns around. He fishes a key from his pocket. The lock and key are both brand new; he had them installed a few years ago. He needed to get the locks replaced, after the last ones, the originals, were smashed. It was a shame- they were antique, but what needed to be replaced must be.

There are two generators in the first room. The one that is running is half full, so he refills the gas. The generator is hooked up to an exhaust pipe outside of the concrete room. There is a small sink, and refrigerator, covered in brown grime along the front. Plus a wall of various cleaning supplies and plastic tarps. It's nothing special, mostly storage. The second room is a simple kitchen. There is a pantry, a thick wooden table, with some well-made chairs. There is another refrigerator, cleaner than the first. The kitchen leads into a computer/television room, with a desk that was built into the wall. There is a hallway, and along the wall, there are 4 doors. The first door is a long bathroom, with a large tub and shower, complete with working hot water. The second door, an empty room for him, with fresh sheets.

The man in black stood in front of the fourth door. He wiped a little bit of drool off the corner of his mouth, he was already excited. There was another clap of thunder, this time much quieter in the concrete room. He opened the door, a shaft of life, his own silhouette, stretched across the floor like a demon. The whimpering immediately began. He closed the door behind him. The room was dark. He loved the sound of his pets.

And the lights were on one flip of a switch later. There they were all curled together, like sweet little darlings. Eyes wide, and wet. They were shaking and sweating, clinging to each other. Their bodies were growing softer from the time he had been away, not as young and taut as they used to be. They looked stale and bruised. Their lips were dry, their room smelled. And soon, the man in black found himself suddenly repulsed. The excitement did not waver. It simply gave him purpose. What needed to be replaced must be.

 

\- - - -

 

In Gotham, it was always a dreary day. The weather could be compared to Portland, it seems to nearly always rain, even if the rest of New Jersey isn't. The air is cold and wet, a bitter snap against your lips and the tip of your nose. Gotham was a grey city- some would say black- with those heavy pregnant clouds waiting to pop, and unleash the heavy downpour. But it simply drizzled. Every day and every night. The pit-pattering of rain could be heard anywhere late at night. It was a local comfort.

You are a local girl, local in the terms of a 10-year resident. You moved during middle school, from Portland. Now you are a young 20-something, struggling to make way. You worked in one of the last remaining call centers in the United States, one of the few that held on to a stubborn belief that outsourcing was stealing American jobs. You didn't really care, your boss was a wannabe conservative libertarian. He was a very nice guy, if only a little creepy, his beliefs weren't racist. He just held wrong opinions about poor people and over-conformed to the American capitalist system. And one of his many beliefs was paying people a decent wage. So you stuck around for the $20 an hour while it still lasted, secretly scouring job sites to get out of customer service.

You worked in an old building that was first a textile factory, that turned itself into a giant office for a computer software company. Then, half of the building was sold and walled off to become cheap apartments. Over the last three years, the influx of crackheads screaming on the other side of the door has made your work slightly bearable, if at least to avoid the boredom of a call center.

One of the perks of your job(which many of your co-workers viewed as a negative) was the proximity it had to the ghetto. It was a simple 2 block walk to meet your weed guy, a white boy named Jake who went to your community college. You met him a couple of years ago in a theater class. He was a recreational street fighter. Smart, self-destructive. Sweet guy, just wanted to take care of his mom. You sometimes overpaid, leaving an extra $40 on the coffee table. Once he even texted, asking if you left money at his place. You lied. It left a sweet taste in your mouth and hard lump in your heart.

You were an average person. You crushed on people out of your league, you didn’t work very hard in school, you didn’t strive to be Employee of the Month. And you hated talking to people. Formal settings were okay but social events killed you. School was so unbearable you needed a Xanax before you went to a class. Your social anxiety just got worse the more you nursed it liked this but who else would want to hang out with an ugly good for nothing like yourself? What so you could open up to them about how pathetic your life is? Or tell them that every night you stress cry about the coming days? That you feel like your life is ending so soon even though it’s barely begun.

Anyway, this isn’t about how useless you are-

At least you weren't so useless that you didn't know the dangers of being so close to the ghetto. Or at least, the ever-present pretense of danger. The cars passing by your workplace drove suspiciously slow. The park across the street had black children at play, as well as the loitering shady teenagers- faces flat and angry. And there was Marvin, a foggy-eyed man who sat caddy corner to the building on a 5-gallon plastic bucket, with a sign that said: "NEED MONEY FOR DRUGS." But he meant his prescription drugs for his glaucoma. The message was lost in translation on the small cardboard sign made from a ripped pizza box top. As so often the word "poverty" is understood as "savage." So the area definitely scared the rest of your middle-aged white co-workers.

You had a routine, so as not to stay out too late. You would avoid your bosses as much as possible between lunch and clock out, by pacing back and forth in different storage rooms with callers. You muffled your own voice by covering your mouth, and it provided a bit of a mental exercise for you. Roaming the break room, making a quick cup of tea and then pretending you are on the phone made an effective way of seeming busy.

 

\- - - -

 

Mr. J smiled as they all backed into a corner, 5 sobbing, blonde headed beauties, digging their nails into each other to hold on. They were perfect 10s, models, sorority girls. The usual get-your-dick-hard-quick fuck meat. Their baby blue eyes shrieked with "RAPEMERAPEMERAPEME." Though they couldn't say this themselves, he had cut out their tongues a long time ago. He knew though. He knew that the only thing they could live on was their drugs. One was a coke head, another was into Adderall, one was into X, amphetamine. All uppers, "go fast," the shit that would keep you skinny forever. They were all drunk with their fixes because he was giving them 15 times the suggested dosage. They should be ODing, but he's bumped up the dosage little by little for a long time, about 15 months.

Mr. J laughed and turned his eye up to the ceiling. He pulled the thick metal chain, the one on the floor. It was linked to the five individual chains, all attached to a torc around each one of their necks. He managed to separate their cluster, laughing as they shrieked. Their necks were locked against the wall, a simple pulley contraption he invented himself. Only the best for his pets.

Mr. J eyed the girls, walking up close to their faces. He had made his own adjustments, based on their recommendations. That is he adjusted their face to something more.... suiting for their personalities. Chompy, and her new set of teeth cowered up at him, hoping he was here to give her her fix. Her mouth hung open, saliva dripping from edges of sharp metal knives. Perky, and her brand new set of breast implants, all 6 of them up and down her stomach like the horny bitch that she was. Dumpo, and her ass fillers swollen and sunken on her rump. Then there was Chelsea, who he didn't rename because he felt the air-headed slut's name actually suited her. It especially suited her after her most recent surgery, the removal of her bottom ribs, as well as some other things that she won't be missing for long. Chelsea was not having a fun time, so he let her be.

Then there was just Ducky, the shortest one, the last one back into her corner. She was originally named Delilah, a model in New York, the name and the life didn't seem to fit the bitch. She had had lip fillers done two days before he met her. She was to be the sixth victim taken in Mr. J's most recent sexual appetites. Her lips were swollen, 15 times their original size, leaking with infected fluid. She was crying so much, her eyes were red. Mr. J held her face, like the night he wined and dined her. The night he took her to a nice hotel room and paid for a beautiful dress, a nice meal. She was too ungrateful. She didn't know how to pay him back, so he had to show her.

He held her warm face in his hand and kissed her head. Her eyes shone, turned her head, showing off the baggy dark circles under her eyes. Mr. J reached into his coat and flicked out his knife. Before Ducky could react, he stabbed her in the eye. Her duck lips flapped, she gave a quack. And soon she was convulsing on the floor. Mr. J knelt down and turned the knife, still stuck in her head, creating an opening. She was struggling to move on the floor, as he had just carved a large hole in her brain. It was a problem. Mr. J removed the knife, grabbed her by the head. He gave swift hard hit against the tile floors. There was a wet cracking noise. He crushed the back of her skull.

Most of Mr. J's entertainment comes from the show. Watching the chaos, the horror. His outward violence is well known, while his more violent sexual deviations were well-kept secrets. Mr. J grabbed her skull. He sat in the center of the room, on a steel chair. The girls watched. He unzipped his pants and bit his lip, revealing how hard the act had just gotten him. Not that they didn't know that this was arousing to him, but more of a reminder of the reason why they have been there. All of them, puffed up, oily sluts. Their pussies dripped with the finest nectar, and he had milked every last bit of sexual ecstasy out of them and turned them into nothing more than mindless dolls. They couldn't speak, they couldn't think, because of all the drugs coursing through their veins. They could just fear.

Mr. J grabbed Ducky's thick head of hair and lined his hard cock up with the bloody socket. There was a squelch and a sigh, as warm blood encased his cock, the feel of soft muck rubbing against it made him shiver. But the gagging, the vocal and visible repulsion the girls felt towards him, he could feel himself moving the head like a sleeve. He grunted, sighed again. He was grinning, wide. His teeth shone in the overhead LED lights as he fucked and fucked and fucked that hole in that bitch's head. The girls were quieter now, still crying, incapable of looking away. He stood up and dropped the head, Ducky's body collapsing on itself like a sack.

He purred, and spoke, "So ladies, who is next?"

 

  
\- - - -

 

You met Jake one day, during lunch. He had new bruises on his knuckles. You sat on his bed and smoked a blunt with him, rubbing your hands over your eyes, "I think I'm gonna quit school...."

"Why do you say that?" he said between coughs. He had just taken a tolerance break. His lungs were virgin new. 

"Because I'm a useless person...." you said, taking the blunt from him, and taking a deep drag. He applauded your drag with a "fat rip dude." You laughed.

Jake smiled at your laughter, "You are not useless- you are very resourceful and strong. And I appreciate you."

You fiddled with a piece of string, "That's very nice of you Jake."

"When you gotta be back?" he asked.

"I guess now, but I can't say I really want to head in right now. Too spun, plus I smell dank."

"Use my shower, tell them that you spilled a drink on yourself and you had to go home and change."

"You're brilliant," you said, sitting up in his bed.

"I just know how to make up a good work excuse."

And really it would have gotten you out of staying late, if you had showered then and now. But you didn't. Instead, you hung around another hour, talking with Jake about Netflix shows, and how they weren't as good as they used to be. Whether it was a lack of creative inspiration or talented producers, who really knew? It was all pointless chatter, just an excuse to be with him, to hear his funny beliefs and comments.

You left a little after 1:30pm, with wet hair and a borrowed shirt of his girlfriend, a mostly absent minded and estranged sophomore at the college. You walked in with the face of an apologetic worker, one of serious regret. You ran into your boss more quickly than you would have liked, and perhaps it was the freshness of it all that irritated him. But it was no excuse in the world that could save you from an evening alone in the office.

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you guys know, this fic isn't choosing any specific joker generation or comic because I like to leave it up to the ladies, but I do like a lot the joker tattoos in Suicide Squad(the silver grill ain't bad either), and I will use them for some of my writing. But really Joaquin Phoenix can have my heart. This is aimed towards women, but if someone comments I can release the non-gender specific one too, and maybe a masculine altered version. But I need my reader to be a lady because.... plot.


End file.
